A Vignette of the Heart
by Farawayland
Summary: My home for a series of CS one-shots/drabbles. All stories will take place within the same universe, but not necessarily following a given timeline. Some chapters may be rated M, and the overall story will be rated M to be safe. Daddy!Killian and fluff ahead.
1. Lilacs in Spring

_Author's Note:_

 _A Vignette of the Heart_ _will be my home for a series of one-shots surrounding Killian and Emma. All stories will take place within the same universe, but not necessarily following a given timeline. Canon will be touched on now and again as I see fit, or not at all._

 _"Lilacs in Spring" is a_ _short glimpse into our Captain's heart and memories as he goes home for the day. I hope you do enjoy, as I very much enjoyed writing this piece. As always, thank you for any reviews/critiques. Enjoy! - Fara_

* * *

" _The true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilacs opening…"_

 _-Truman Capote_

The grocery bag swung idly from the curve of his hook as he walked, his boots beating a hurried staccato along the pavement as he headed home. The waves and wind had been kind to the Jolly Roger today as he and Henry sailed, and there was a warm feeling of contentment in each breath he took, though perhaps _content_ was not a word possessing enough strength to describe the way he felt—in his heart he knew there wasn't one.

When he held her in his arms, it was as if the world itself simply stopped _being_ , just so they wouldn't be disturbed. Every breath he drew when he was near her, he seemed to pull straight from her very skin, so full of her scent was each mouthful of air. There were still days when he woke and studied the lines and curves of her face, laying beside her in silent awe and barely able to touch her for fear she would vanish. In those private moments, he would wonder that he, Killian Jones— _Hook—_ after his multitude of sins, could somehow manage to be deemed worthy by this magnificent woman. Though as much as he preferred to think of them as moments of concealed weakness, Emma could always see the trepidation in his eyes, and taking his rough face in her hands, she would remind him of how he had saved her too.

His pace quickened as the familiar sight of their home came into view, the breeze off the water carrying the faint scent of lilacs to him.

 _Home._

His smile widened as he climbed the few steps to their front door, the fingers on his good hand gently brushing the vibrant purple and pristine white blooms, as they always did—a small indulgence in the solidity of his world.

 _Home._

The door swung open and he stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scents that had become uniquely theirs. He hung his leather jacket beside Emma's, his aged with brine and the tang of metal, hers tinged with lingering notes of citrus. As he took off his boots and wandered into the kitchen, he was enveloped by the lilting bouquet of the lavender soap she used, touched with a slight edge of something distinctive. He cast his eyes about the empty room, looking for the faint note he couldn't place. His gaze landed on a new vase perched in the kitchen window, its neck cradling an assortment of roses.

The same roses from all of those years ago.

* * *

A small smile tugged at Killian's lips, blossoming into a full-blown grin as Emma rested her chin on his shoulder, her hands linked through the crook of his arm. She returned his smile warmly, sharing in the quiet moment before tucking her head against his neck, the smile never leaving her face.

A sliver of unhappiness intruded as they passed the florist's shop. Emma had slowed their pace, and she lingered, letting go of Killian's arm even as he turned to see what kept her. He watched as she stopped to finger the delicate, velvet petals on display, an indulgent, yet regretful smile adorning her face. He moved to the place he felt most comfortable, at her side, and tucked a wandering strand of hair behind her ear. He said nothing, but merely nudged the tip of his hook between her idle fingers, wanting to give her something to hold onto. His Swan was an open book to him, such as it were, and the longing on her face as she took in the colorful display of domesticity was a familiar companion of his own.

 _You don't bother to ornament a place that doesn't hold your heart._

The next morning, after they parted ways at the door to the Sheriff's Office, he'd walked back to the florist and lingered over the fragile blooms, picturing the lissome play of her fingers as she trimmed stems and arranged them in a vase. The parcel he acquired that day lay tucked in a much overlooked corner of the Jolly Roger for some time as he waited for the proper moment in which to surprise her.

It was a warm, clear day when he suggested they choose a different direction in which to meander, his steps gently guiding them toward a street overlooking the ocean, the view of the water so unobstructed that he'd often noticed the row of quaint houses from the deck of the Jolly Roger. As soon as they rounded the corner, her eyes caught on the crooked _'For Sale'_ sign before drifting to the deep blue shutters and cobblestone walk.

"Will you look at that," she muttered, her face carefully impassive as she eyed the house. "I didn't know there was anything for sale on the waterfront. Well, it certainly fits Storybrooke, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it is rather _charming_ , Swan," he said innocently, his fingers reaching upwards to scratch behind his ear as he struggled to contain a pleased smirk.

She missed neither.

It was a few weeks later that he retrieved the parcel from his ship after an early morning moving the last of their sparse boxes. His heart filled with a sense of completeness he hadn't thought possible as he placed it on the kitchen counter before heading out for the day. When he returned home late that evening, the hours between lunch and sleep spent helping Henry complete an astronomy project, it was to the sight of his Emma draped across the couch, her golden curls spilling across the elegant sweep of her shoulders. He bent to kiss her cheek, not wanting to wake her, and noticed the small, red cuts decorating her fingers.

He lifted her hand gently, taking in the tiny nicks with a frown. It was only when he arose that he saw the crystal vase he'd left for her in the window overlooking the sea, a spray of pink roses nestled within its embrace. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the space, still empty save for a couch and a few boxes, his rough fingers trembling slightly as he brushed the delicate curve of petals, tears in his eyes.

 _Home._

When he woke, it was to the last moments of darkness before the sun rose; his Emma nestled alongside him on the narrow couch. He raised his fingers to the smooth expanse of her cheek, his damaged arm secure beneath her as she slept. Her eyelashes fluttered lightly as awareness came to her, green eyes full of something she couldn't speak when she met his gaze.

He didn't need her words to know how she felt, to understand that for most of her life the idea of a true home was ephemeral and not meant for someone like her—centuries and realms may have separated them, but their hearts had walked similar paths of isolation. To know that for the both of them, after all of those years wandering, they'd found a place to anchor, it was all he had hoped for and everything he'd never thought he would find.

His fingers traced down her jaw and neck, memorizing the rhythm of her pulse before finding her hand and securing it in his own. Leaning into her, their foreheads and noses met, bodies finding solace in the curves and plains of the other—like the ocean finding the earth, two pieces that were always meant to come together. When their lips found each others, the world around them did its part by disappearing entirely.

As the seasons passed, they'd slowly filled the space with their lives—Killian's leather jacket decidedly at home beside Emma's knit cap and Henry's striped scarf in the entryway. His footsteps no longer echoed across empty rooms, and the sea breeze was a constant companion as it played at the curtains Emma had lingered over, teasing free gossamer petals from the flowers that she had never stopped filling their home with.


	2. A Rite of Passage

_Author's Note:_ _A simple, but touching, exchange. Let me know what you think. Thanks! -Fara_

* * *

Emma was glad for her fluffy socks as she tiptoed down the hallway, her ears picking up the murmured conversation behind the bathroom door, the mechanism just shy of closed.

While Killian was always up and moving around by the time the sun rose, Henry was another matter entirely, so she was surprised to hear his voice joining that of her pirate's.

 _What were her boys up to?_

She'd reached the door, and leaning quietly, back pressed to the wall, she listened.

"And _what_ do you call this?"

She smiled softly, biting her lower lip at Killian's quizzical tone. He'd adjusted so well that sometimes she forgot he was a three-hundred year old pirate, and needed a bit of help now and again. Henry must have been explaining something to him.

Not wanting to disturb them, she was about to leave when Henry's next words made her heart clench in her chest.

"That's a razor. It's like a blade you shave your face with."

"This is _not_ a blade, lad."

She heard the familiar shuffling of Killian's leather jacket—he must have been on his way to check the Jolly Roger—and then the snap of something metallic flicking open.

"Wow, that's awesome!" Henry exclaimed. "You keep your razor on you?"

"This is not a razor, Henry, it's a straight-blade—and a man can never carry too many blades."

"Even in Storybrooke?"

"Especially in Storybrooke."

There was a moment of silence, and Emma stood waiting, her fingers pressed firmly against the small smile on her lips.

"Killian," Henry began, his words becoming rushed as he expelled them in one breath. "Could you teach me how to shave?"

There was only a second of silence, and then Killian responded, his voice coarse and low.

"Aye, lad."

Emma couldn't help the sudden weakness in her knees, or the tears that finally rolled over her eyelashes, slipping down the curve of her cheek. Needing the feel of something sturdy beneath her, she quietly eased herself to the floor and tucked her arms around her legs, chin pressed to her knees, listening.

She let her heart wander as she listened to the touching back and forth between Killian and her son, memories of giving birth to Henry lingering, the pain she felt when she looked away, giving him up because she never thought she would be able to give him _this_. The moment where she realized that Neal could finally be a part of Henry's life, only to have him pulled away too soon.

Henry's voice broke through her reverie.

"Don't we need a hot towel or something?"

"A hot towel, why on earth would we need a hot towel?"

"You know, to like, make it easier, or something…" her son mumbled.

"Nonsense, lad. You simply take the blade like so…"

Killian's voice trailed away, replaced by the nearly imperceptible swipe of metal against skin, and then the splashing of water as he rinsed the straight blade.

"…and there you are!"

"Well, that doesn't seem so hard. Can I try?"

The silence stretched as Emma closed her eyes and imagined Henry raising the ornate straight-blade to his smooth cheek, fingers trembling slightly as he rested the sharp edge on his skin. She had watched Killian trim his stubble with it more times than she could count, his movements practiced and fluid as he worked, and she wondered what thoughts were running through his mind as Henry stood in front of the sink, his fingers cradling the blade that had been Liam's. Her heart tightened painfully.

"Ouch, that hurts!"

Emma bit back the chuckle that was threatening to escape, not wanting her boys— _men_ —to know she was eavesdropping.

"Is this why you never shave?"

Killian scoffed, and she knew he would be ducking his head to the right, his nimble fingers finding that place behind his ear that always seemed to itch.

"I've never had any complaints, lad."

"Gross," Henry muttered, and Emma had to bite her tongue for the second time.

"Pay attention to the blade, Henry."

There was another drawn out silence.

"Shit, Killian," Henry started, a slight undercurrent of worry in his voice. "I'm bleeding."

She heard the rustle of Killian's coat as he leaned close, imagining his hand tipping Henry's chin upward, surveying the damage.

"Buck up, lad. Any pirate worth his salt is never afraid to get a little bloody."

"Will it scar?"

"It's nothing but a scratch. You'll pull through."

Emma smiled as she recognized the sound of Killian mussing Henry's hair, something he seemed especially fond of doing.

"Killian, thanks for teaching me."

Henry's voice dropped in volume, as if the words he were saying were too significant to be anything other than closely held.

"I know you miss my dad too, but I just wanted to let you know that I think he'd be really proud of you, and I'm really happy you're here—with me and my mom, I mean. Maybe you can keep teaching me things, you know, when I need some help?"

"I'll teach you anything you'd like, Henry."

And then the pirate's voice broke a little.

"I'd be honored."

Emma managed to scramble to her feet and back away from the bathroom before they opened the door, both of them lingering at its entrance for a moment, unaware of her presence. Henry extended his hand to Killian, and then changing his mind, leaned into the startled pirate for a quick embrace.

As Henry walked down the hall toward the kitchen, still taking no notice of his mother, a hand reaching up to run over his smooth cheek, Killian turned towards her, his eyes bright with tears that he smiled weakly through.

She moved to him quickly, her fingers brushing away the few droplets that ran down his cheek, her forehead pressed against his as he held her. She could see the happiness in the lines of his face, but also the doubt, the regret that he had guided Henry through a rite of passage that should have been Baelfire's place.

She knew that in that moment his heart was full of Baelfire as a boy, lost and frightened, and of Neal as a man. She understood that Liam lingered at the edge of his thoughts, a long-gone figure that once held that exact blade to Killian's cheek, guiding him through the same ritual he had just shown Henry.

Letting her fingers drop to his chest, the tips of them tracing circles on the echoing thump of his heart, her head fell to his shoulder, mouth tucked neatly against his neck. She rocked gently with him then, her lips murmuring words that were ones of comfort, happiness, and a sense of _rightness_ in the world—words so precious that she kept them close to his skin, where he could keep them safe forever.


	3. Needing You

_A/N: A bit of angst and fluff from our always stubborn, Emma Swan. Enjoy! –Fara_

* * *

Emma was not going to call Killian.

There were a surplus of thoughts running through her head at the moment—hadn't David called Marco to fix that leak, _why_ had Regina even bothered to create census records to begin with, and _who_ had the bright idea to store such heavy boxes on the top shelf—but first and foremost, that she was absolutely, unequivocally _not_ going to call Killian.

It didn't matter that her ankle throbbed painfully, or that there was a puddle of lukewarm hot chocolate seeping into her sweater. Under no circumstance was she going to give that pirate of hers the satisfaction of being right.

She blinked her eyes, studying the water-stained ceiling above her through the metal frame of a shelving unit that was slanted across the aisle, its topmost shelf resting solidly on the cluttered rack to her left. She _really_ thought David had taken care of the leaky pipe in the ceiling last week, and couldn't help thinking it would have been better if she had added the task to her to-do list rather than her father's, busy as he and Mary Margaret were these days wrangling an adventurous toddler. She couldn't help the inevitable grin that tugged at her lips, her hands running down the damp cable-knit of her sweater to rest on the large swell of her stomach. Well, perhaps it was better that she had a little less on her plate lately. The ceiling could wait.

Those thoughts and the insistent press of a tiny foot beneath her skin turned her mind immediately back to Killian, her body thrumming with a combination of frustration and longing, the image she held of him conjuring his comforting scent as easily as if she were snuggled against his chest. Damn pregnancy hormones.

She wanted to be upset with him, but she knew how terrified he was, his sleepless confession still ever-present in her mind. He'd whispered the words against her neck, as if he were afraid speaking them too loudly was tempting fate, his hand resting protectively over the small bump that was only beginning to show. The many narrow escapes, the curses, the villains…the darkness, they had all threatened to take her away from him, and now he was wary of even the _good_ things that might do the same. Childbirth in his realm was not always a beautiful memory to be cherished, and she could do nothing more than kiss his mop of disheveled hair and promise she would never leave him, and that things were much easier here, and far safer.

Her chest tightened and tears bloomed at the corners of her eyes as the enormity of her love for him overwhelmed her. It seemed to do that often these days. She loved Killian more than she had ever known she was capable of loving anyone, yet here she was, lying in a puddle of spilt chocolate with a turned ankle instead of calling him and admitting that she needed his help, that she needed him. Sure, he refused to let her tackle the stairs without him at her side, and he had actually climbed _into_ the bathtub twice, fully clothed, to help her out. She'd bit back her complaints about that the moment she saw his face, the regret over his lack of two hands painfully evident behind the bright blue of his eyes. She could see the worry that his hook was not enough to keep her, and eventually their child, firmly in his grasp growing every day, no matter how many times she told him no one else had ever made her feel as safe. If climbing bodily into the tub with her made him feel better, she could give him that, even if it made _her_ feel like a whale. There was the one time he'd tried to cut her food, but her glare and tightening grip on the handle of the steak knife had been more than enough to return him to his seat, but everything else…how could she fault him for caring? How could she ever fault him for anything when she was just relieved that every day was another day they had together?

As she stared at the ceiling, suddenly feeling miserably alone despite the little pirate kicking her bladder, the urge to call Killian was overwhelming. She didn't care that if she called she would be validating everything he had said this morning before she stormed out, that she was pushing too hard, doing too much, and that she was going to get hurt.

Emma was going to call Killian.

Leaving one hand circling her stomach, she reached toward her pocket for her cell phone, a frustrated groan leaving her lips when she realized her jacket and phone were draped over the chair at her desk. Three months ago she would have simply flicked her wrist and made it appear in her hand, but these days flicking her wrist didn't always go as planned. She had been more than lucky that her on-the-fritz magic had managed to successfully deflect the boxes away from her as they toppled from the shelf. She didn't want to try summoning her phone only to discover she'd vanished herself to some obscure corner of Storybrooke. The dangers of teleportation with regard to an unborn child were not something discussed in the pregnancy books she'd checked out of the library.

As she stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if waiting for David to return from his walkabout was her only option, a single drop of liquid fell from the water-stained ceiling overhead, situated in exactly the right place to plummet through the open shelf and splatter coldly on her forehead.

Emma blinked. Once. Twice—and then all at once she couldn't stop, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she blinked furiously to keep them back, hating that she was sobbing like a lost girl, but hating equally as much that she was stuck underneath a shelf, hemmed in by scattered boxes of sodding census records, and wearing cold hot chocolate.

When the tears slowed and her eyes burned from rubbing her knuckles against them, she returned her hands to her stomach, the gentle movement calming her nerves as much as anyone other than Killian could. David would be back at _some_ point today. She just had to wait, and then she could go home and kiss her pirate until he understood how much she needed him.

The sound of the door to the Sheriff's Department opening pulls her mind from the distraction of _where_ exactly she wants to place those kisses, and her first thought is that David is back sooner than she expected.

The relief that washes over her when she hears a lilting accent echo through the building temporarily steals her voice, and for a moment the only thing she can do is listen to the familiar cadence of his footsteps as he heads down the hallway, slow tears beginning in her eyes again. Damn pregnancy hormones.

"I know you're probably still angry with me, Emma, but I couldn't get rid of this feeling that you needed—" his face goes white as he steps around the corner and sees the complete disaster that is the storage room, his frantic blue eyes taking in the tilted shelf and fallen boxes. "—me."

"I do, Killian," she whispers, tilting her head back to watch his upside down form as he rushes forward and starts yanking boxes from between them. "I need you, Killian. I always will."

She is sure he hasn't noticed that the shelf wedged over her stops a good foot away from the swell of her stomach, or that the boxes scattered around her seemed to have fallen outside of an unnaturally clear circle, but the meeting of their fingertips when he reaches her calms him, and he pulls her tenderly out and onto his lap, his hand cradling her face as he rests his forehead against hers, noses nudging softly.

They sit there longer than Emma realizes, three hands and a hook meeting over their child who is kicking softly against them, and she knows that as long as she needs him, he will _always_ find her. She plans on needing him forever.


	4. Crocodile of Mine

_A/N: This ended up being far longer than I planned, but I hope you guys enjoy it. I wrote it all in one go, and I'm pretty pleased with how it came out. I'm planning on revisiting some things from this piece in future chapters, mostly because this is where my muse decided to land. Let me know what you think! -Fara_

* * *

Killian woke to Emma hissing his name, her voice low and urgent and nudging at the dream-addled corners of his mind. The bedroom was quite dark, the slender crescent of the moon still resting high in the black stretch of sky outside their window. The only illumination came from the lamp in the hallway, its gentle glow framing her in the doorway, her features hidden from him. He notices the squirming form hunched over her shoulder and realizes that she must have woken to tend to Liam, and the lad, little pirate that he is, was clearly not cooperating.

She whispers his name again, her hands circling gently over their son's back. He sits up in the bed and prepares to toss the covers aside, ready to take his turn with the boy and soothe him back to sleep so she can rest.

"No!" she hisses before he can throw the covers and swing his legs over the edge of the bed, her hand circling a little more desperately. "Don't. Move. Don't make a sound."

There is a sharp note of panic edging her quiet words, and he is instantly alert, his body tensing as he tries to discern what fresh hell must have descended on Storybrooke to illicit such a reaction from his fearless wife. He reminds himself that Henry is staying with Regina and is in perfectly capable hands should the terror visited upon them choose to strike.

"Emma," he rasps, his voice harsher than he intended from disuse, but she glares at him, and he stifles any question he had been prepared to ask, instead waiting for her to explain what is going on so that he knows how to proceed.

His voice seems to have stirred Liam slightly, and she takes a moment to rock him slowly in her arms until he stills.

Killian is already calculating how long it will to take him to attach his brace, to find his cutlass, and to prepare the _Jolly Roger_. He is tallying how much time it will take to get everyone to the safety of his ship, if need be, when her whispered words halt his thoughts.

"I can't find Dilly, Killian—anywhere. I can't find him _anywhere_."

Her voice is haunted, and Killian can feel the tension dissipate from his body only to be reborn as something hopeless and taunting.

For a single instant there was relief. No new villain had arrived to turn Storybrooke on its head. They would not have to outrun another curse, or contend with memory loss, _again_ , but Dilly was missing.

His son's stuffed toy is missing.

That thought plays though his head a second time.

His son's stuffed toy is _missing_.

Then there is panic—a cold, stomach turning dread.

Beside the dread sits a familiar, deep-seated irritation that always rears its head when Dilly is mentioned.

 _Someone_ had thought it would be humorous to gift their child with a stuffed crocodile. _Someone_ had thought it would be a good laugh. That someone hadn't _known_ that Liam would become so bloody attached to it that he couldn't go anywhere without the sodding thing.

Bloody crocodile.

Memories of the last time Dilly had "gone for a swim" surfaced in his mind. Liam had sobbed wretchedly for hours, his little body shuddering with the torment of losing his favorite stuffed toy, unwilling to be soothed by sweets or the gentle flickering sparks of magic Emma sometimes used as a distraction. Killian had finally managed a solid half hour of peace while his son recovered from his anguish, his exhausted body stretched across the arms of his father, snot and tears dried across his face and down the dark sleeves of Killian's shirt as he slept—thirty minutes of blissful silence before the nightmare began anew and reinvigorated.

Liam suddenly convulsed in Emma's arms, tossing her hand aside and mumbling in his sleep. Emma shot him a pleading look, and as quietly as he could manage, he started across the floor, offering his arms as Liam shifted and whined against his mother.

Emma handed him off easily, shaking her arms briskly to restore blood flow to her fingers. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with darkness, and he wondered how long she had been awake rocking their son, trying to trick him back into his slumber before he woke and realized the betrayal heaped at the door of his little heart.

Somehow they had lost his Dilly.

Killian swayed his body in the familiar rhythm his son found most soothing, murmuring soft noises against his head whenever the lad snuffled, as if somehow he _knew_. Once Liam had settled nicely into his chest, his breathing still, they headed down the hall and into the darkened kitchen, both of them fully awake as the enormity of the situation sank in.

Emma settled across the center island, as she called it, from him, her hands running knots through her hair. Her words were a whisper when they finally came.

"When did we last see him?"

Killian took a moment to assure Liam's breathing was untroubled before he answered, keeping his words as low as he could.

"Granny's this morning, Swan. Dilly wanted _eggs_ , if you recall."

Emma couldn't help the teasing smile that tugged at her lips. It was no secret that Killian loathed the green, furry toy that his son held so dear. He also never passed by an opportunity to crow over the fact that Liam had one day informed everyone that Dilly was a 'vegetarian' because his teeth were too soft to eat things like bacon and ham. Not like his Papa's hook, he followed that remark with. His Papa's hook was very sharp.

"We were at the park the whole day after that. Do you think we—"

"Not a chance," Killian cut in, still rocking gently in place to keep their son settled and slumbering. "Liam was bright eyed and quite busy terrorizing the local fauna until the moment we left, sodding crocodile in hand. He would have raised hell if we'd left without him."

"I can't believe we somehow slipped Liam into his crib for the night and didn't even _realize_ that Dilly was missing. We're terrible parents."

"Come now, Swan. A bit dramatic, don't you think? We were rather preoccupied with _other_ things at the time, a lapse that can certainly be forgiven—and repeated," Killian teased, lascivious grin in place as he wiggled his eyebrows ridiculously over the head of their sleeping child.

Rolling her eyes, Emma chose to ignore his mischievous comments, though she couldn't keep the flush from her cheeks as she recalled the _other_ things they had been more concerned with in that moment.

"We did stop at my parent's loft," she continued. "He could be there."

"And then we took a quick jaunt down to the _Jolly_ before heading back to put him down."

"So we lost Dilly on our way to the docks? Wonderful."

"Actually, he nodded off in his stroller at the loft, so there is a chance Dilly could be there as well."

"Bloody _hell_ , Jones."

Emma leaned forward and plopped her elbows on the counter, cradling her forehead in her hands as she scrunched her fingertips roughly along her scalp, trying to sooth the headache that had started the moment she realized Dilly was gone.

"I think that's my line, Swan. Are you quoting _me_ now?"

Emma couldn't help the laugh that escaped her mouth, her hand moving to stifle it as soon as she realized how loud it sounded in the otherwise silent house, but it was too late.

"Pa…pa…"

A look of horror passed between them as Liam shifted in Killian's arms, turning his scrunched faced upward to gaze at his father through thick, dark lashes. His small hand reached up and patted the rough stubble at Killian's jaw, taking comfort in the fact that the blurry silhouette of a man that smelled like his father, and rocked him like his father, was indeed his father.

"Papa?" he asked again, suddenly more alert when he realized he was not in a room he expected to be in when it was still so dark out, his fingers tightening instinctively around air, and then around the charms at his father's neck. "Where's Dilly, Papa?"

Killian's throat went dry, a heaviness settling in his chest.

Killian had battled pirates on the high seas and faced down mermaids. He'd taunted a giant and courted death more times than he could count. His reputation alone had brought hardened captains to their knees aboard the deck of his ship, but in this moment, he was terrified. How could he look into those blue eyes that stared trustingly back up at him and say that he'd let him down?

"I think Mummy knows, m'boy. Let's ask her, shall we?"

He was a coward.

The dark look Emma shot at him before Liam swung his head around left no doubt in his mind that he would be paying for that remark later.

"Mummy?" Liam intoned, his eyes just beginning to tear at the corners as he bounced his gaze between the two of them. Just like his mother, Liam seemed to always be able to tell when something wasn't quite sitting right.

"Oh, Liam. Dilly is just—"

The shrill tones of the doorbell startled them both, the noise jarring and out of place in the dark hours of the early morning. Killian was both confused as to who would be calling on them at such an hour, because truth be told, he couldn't handle a villain situation right now, and then eternally grateful for the interruption.

He followed Emma to the entryway, placing a squirming Liam down so he could run after his Mum, the last known suspect with regards to his missing Dilly.

Emma swung the door open, and the three of them were greeted by the cheerful face of Mary Margaret, far _too_ cheerful for three 'o'clock in the morning.

"I'm _so_ sorry to wake you, but—oh! Well, look who it is," Mary Margaret cooed, kneeling down on the stoop and extending her arms to the wide-eyed, messy-haired boy watching her from between his parents' legs.

Like Emma, Liam was not always at his most gracious before seven in the morning. He merely narrowed his eyes and thrust his hand forward threateningly, waving it about as if he were equipped with his own hook.

"You've got my Dilly, 'Gama. _Why_?"

Killian bit the inside of his cheek at his son's brazen, commanding tone, and when he chanced a glance at Emma, he saw she was nibbling on her bottom lip as well, doing her best to keep her grin in check. The little lad had somehow managed to acquire all of the troublesome traits that both he and Emma could have possibly passed onto him, but they wouldn't trade him for the world.

"Well, Liam," Mary Margaret reasoned, clearly having been unprepared for an inquisition. "Mummy called me over because…Dilly was playing with this earlier, and he missed it, so I thought I would bring it over for him."

Mary Margaret had dug into the deep pockets of her coat and removed a shiny red matchbox car, holding it out to Liam alongside Dilly.

"Oh," Liam muttered, still suspicious as he took them both and clutched Dilly against his cheek, eyeing his smiling Grandmother warily.

"Was that okay, Liam, or am I going to have to walk the plank?" Mary Margaret teased, reaching forward and tickling the sliver of skin between his pajama top and bottoms.

Ever the serious child, Liam leaned his head out the door and looked down the street to where the ocean glimmered and the _Jolly Roger_ anchored.

"It's far, 'Gama," he murmured, rubbing his eyes with the belly of his crocodile. "I'm tired. Papa?"

With that, Liam turned and reached upward, Dilly held safely in one hand, matchbox car in the other. Killian scooped him up, angling him toward Emma so she could take the wet kiss and gentle caress Liam offered before carrying him down the hall. He could tuck him back into his crib, _or_ he could bring him to their bed. Perhaps a warm, snuggly, blue-eyed three-year-old with dashing good looks would melt Emma's heart enough that she would forgive him his earlier cowardice.

Emma watched her boys recede down the hallway and turn toward the bedroom, her heart melting the moment she watched her son reach up and gently stroke his father's face, Dilly falling to the ground, forgotten. Killian paused, leaning down and scooping up the much loathed crocodile, he placed him firmly back in Liam's grasp.

"Emma?"

Her mother's voice reminded her that she was still standing in the open doorway of her home at three-o-clock in the morning when she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed beside her husband and son and bask in the knowledge that tomorrow would be tantrum free, most likely.

" _Thank you_ ," she sighed, her fingers flying to her mouth to stifle the yawn she couldn't stop. "We had no idea what we were going to do if we couldn't find him. Where was he?"

"Kicked under the counters. I touched something warm and fuzzy with my toe when I got up to make tea. As soon as I realized it was Dilly, well, I just knew I had to get him back home."

"Seriously, Mom. You're a lifesaver. We'll see you tomorrow."

Emma gave her mother a tight squeeze and turned to shut the door, only to have it bounce back against something wedged in the jam—her mother's foot.

"Mom, what…?"

"I'm sorry, Emma. It's just…I'm going to need that matchbox car back before seven. If Neal wakes up and it's gone…well, it won't be a Dilly-sized catastrophe, but it will be close."

Well, there went her dreams of a late morning in bed.

Then she remembered that there was a certain pirate who would most definitely be scheming up ways to get back in her good graces after throwing her under the bus. Perhaps he could start with an early morning walk to the loft, and then maybe, just _maybe_ , she'd let him make it up to her in some _other_ ways.


	5. The Dream I Have

**A/N: A little bit of late night inspiration leads to a little excerpt from a not-so-peaceful night. Any errors can most certainly be blamed on how quickly this came to be and the late hour. I hope you enjoy! - Fara**

* * *

 _The concrete is unforgiving against her back, the chill of it seeping easily through the thin material of her sweater and crawling relentlessly beneath her skin. She glances down at her wrist, suddenly as unnerved by the sharp night air as she is by the empty parking lot and the dark alley._

 _Thick smoke billows from a nearby vent, drawing her gaze, and she can't help but feel that there is something there, something just beyond it waiting for her, calling to her. The thought reminds her that she_ is _waiting for something, for someone, actually._

 _Neal._

 _He is late, and she feels alone—more alone than she_ should _feel, something in the back of her mind reminds her._

 _Shoving the feeling aside, she snaps open her phone and calls him, letting her feet take her away from the wall and toward the smoke that is swirling enticingly. It's a lot harder to push back the ominous worry when the automated voice on the line tells her that the number she dialed is out of service. Have I reached this message in error?_

" _Damn right it's an error!" she snaps, indignant._

" _Unless he set you up."_

 _The unexpected voice startles her, and it takes her a second to even understand the words that are directed at her._

" _Hands above your head please, Miss."_

 _She hears the familiar click of a gun being cocked at the same moment she is turning away from the smoke to see what's going on—familiar because she's heard it in movies, in TV shows, never because she's had one pointed at her before, but that's definitely what's happening now._

" _Wait, why?"_

 _Her hands are moving up slowly of their own accord, and her brain is telling her that's a good thing over the panicked thumping of her heart. You don't argue with someone who has a gun pointed at you, especially a cop. Her palms tingle and she can feel the sweat that is beginning to break out on them, the grip on her phone tightening._

" _Possession of stolen goods," the cop calls out, walking forward with his gun still trained on her._

 _Suddenly, the watch feels heavy and suffocating against her wrist, the leather tightening painfully, the bold, shining face lighting up as brilliantly as a street lamp in the dark alley._

" _I have nothing."_

 _The words feel like barbs clawing their way out of her throat, an outrageous lie, and something in the back of her mind is reaching out to her, whispering in her ear—_ no, Emma, you have everything _—but that doesn't make sense…_

 _Neal has the rest of the watches._

" _Sorry to tell you, but your boy took off, probably in Canada by now. He called in a tip…"_

 _The cop's words twist in the air around her, stretched and pulled into something only vaguely resembling speech, and everything is suddenly too much. Too much pain, too much disbelief, too much agony. How could she have ever thought that someone would love her, would want to start a life with her?_

 _She had nothing. She certainly didn't have Neal. He'd betrayed her, left her._

 _Everyone left her. She had nothing._

You have everything, _something whispered._

 _She had no one._

 _Then there is the biting grip of metal settling around her wrists, colder than the wall or the night air, and infinitely more terrifying. She can hear that the cop is still talking to her, asking her questions—something about the watches._

" _They're gone," she mumbles, and she tries to recall the watches, the box they were in, Neal's face when she gave them to him and he strapped one around her wrist, but she can't. "They're not coming back."_

 _Something else is trying to push its way to the front of her mind, through the grey smoke that is still swirling upwards from the vent before her, through the fear and hopelessness that is settling around her like a tomb—something that is warm and comforting, something that is_ safe _._

" _Let's go."_

 _His words are foreboding—final—and suddenly it is not the sting of the handcuffs that terrify her, but the insistent pull of the cop who is turning her and taking her away, pulling her away…away from something, from someone._

" _I don't want to go," she cries._

 _Her voice is weak and broken as she strains against him, leaning toward the swirling smoke that is beckoning her. She can just see the silhouette of someone coming toward her—a man—a long coat billowing outward as he rushes forward, arm outstretched, a glint of silver at his side, a voice that fills her with warmth, and she knows that she_ can't _leave him, that she has to get to him._

" _Stop!" she screams, fighting against the cop who is hauling her away. "Please, don't!"_

 _There is the faintest glimpse of his face, dark brows knit with concern over eyes the most startling shade of blue, and then the cop yanks her roughly backwards, her arms twisting painfully as she tumbles to the ground, falling—_

—and then she is awake, jolting upwards, her body trembling and chilled beneath the thin sheen of sweat that covers her skin. She is enveloped by warm arms—a familiar scent—and a relieved cry falls from her lips when she hears his voice low and soothing against her matted, damp hair.

The walls of their bedroom sharpen, chasing away any last vestiges of the darkened alley from her nightmare.

"Easy, love," he whispers, and despite the tears that are pooling in her eyes, she stills against him, her body relaxing into the safe haven his arms have become. "Everything is alright, Emma. I'm here."

"Killian," she mumbles, his name muffled as she turns into him, burying her face and hands against the safety of his chest, taking comfort in the solid rhythm his heart beats against her cheek.

It's that sound, the familiar cadence of his heart, that makes the words tumble from her in stilted, pained gasps, the many times she has almost lost him, the knowledge that Gold once held Killian's heart in his fist making her nightmare seem all the more real, all the more possible.

"I couldn't—I couldn't lose you, Killian. He left me, but you were _there_. You were coming for me, but they were taking me. They were pulling me away from you. I was going to l-lose you. I was—"

"Hush now, love," he murmurs, his fingers stroking the back of her head as his maimed arm encircles her tightly, anchoring her firmly against him. "You're here, safe with me, safe in our bed, our home. I'll not let anyone take you from me, Emma."

She shudders against him, and he alternates between calming sounds and pressing gentle kisses to the crown of her head until her body stills, her slow, quivering sobs fading into easy breaths that tell him she has calmed, but hasn't yet fallen asleep.

And though he knows it is not _really_ a worry that she harbors anymore, he says the words anyway, because they are the truth, and he understands better than most that even though she knows _this_ particular truth in her heart, in her bones, hearing it will always make her feel safe—loved.

"And I'll _always_ come for you, Emma. I'll always find you."

He can feel her lips turn against him in a smile, and he knows the tear that falls against his skin is not one of sadness, because she presses her lips against his heart and says that she knows, that somehow they'll always find each other—because that is what True Love means, and when she falls asleep against him, she dreams deeply of the life she already has.


End file.
